


The Trouble With Technology

by xbedhead



Category: Friday Night Lights
Genre: Gen, Post-Season 5, canon AU, snippit of a scene that never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:51:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xbedhead/pseuds/xbedhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pennsylvania. Texas. Hell, probably Alaska. High school football players are high school football players, no matter where the job takes you. And sometimes boys just have to be dealt with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trouble With Technology

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first _FNL_ fic. It doesn't really go anywhere, but I'm hoping it'll lead me to writing more. It's unbeta'd and I'd love to hear your thoughts on it.

His arm is aching something fierce, but it’s his own damn fault, making a point the way he had.

“When you throw like that” – and he’d proceeded to hit his wide receiver, Javante Cooper, over his left shoulder with a tight spiral from fifty-eight yards out – “when I see you throw like _that_ , then I may con _sid_ er not taking it as a personal affront when you deem it necessary to check _Facebook_ during my weight lifting period. But I ain’t _seen_ anybody throw like that, so…right now, gentlemen…I am _affronted_.”

He gave a pointed look to Terrence Myers, their quarterback. 

“Hit ‘em.”

And the Pioneers had known what to do. They groaned in unison but all trudged toward the stands, not bothering to keep their sentiments about their quarterback’s recent arrogance to themselves. Their cleats clanged against the aluminum stands and the sound of their grunting and heavy breathing was quickly overpowered. The sun paired with the ninety-eight percent humidity of a mid-September heat wave was almost unbearable. 

“What’s your girlfriend up to, Myers? Post anything good, one of those…funny joke pictures with dancin’ cats?” he’d asked, smiling, laughing in a way that had nothing to do with humor.

He’d tucked his clipboard under his armpit and clapped a few times, scuffing his toe against the turf while pacing back and forth. “Aww, yeah. We can do this _all_ day. All _day_ , gentlemen. See, I’d wanted to have this little thing called _practice_ , but you – all y’all wanna do is ignore what I have to say, run your mouths, so I’m helping you out. I’m gettin’ you almost _exactly_ what you wanted. We’re runnin’ – we’re runnin’ and we’re gonna _keep_ runnin’ until we’ve availed ourselves of the need to ignore those who have been placed in authority over us. Is that clear?”

There was a mumble from the players and he’d cupped his hand over his ear dramatically. “I’m sorry – what’s that?”

_“Yes, sir!”_

“Thank you, Scoot. Thank you. Glad someone listens. Glad someone can hear me – their _coach_ \- over the sound of their own ego.”

He’d let them stop twenty minutes and thirty sets of bleachers later. They weren’t quite as steep as they’d been in Dillon, but they went back farther and achieved the same effect – obedience. If only for the rest of practice.

But now he’s aggravated the rotator cuff injury he’d gotten at Austin twenty years ago and there isn’t a bottle of Aspirin in sight.

“Like I’m talkin’ to hear myself think,” he mutters, rolling his shoulder and squeezing it as he comes to a stop at a red light. He focuses on the radio for a moment, flipping through the channels until he realizes belatedly what he was unconsciously looking for – Slammin’ Sammy is nowhere to be found. Not in East Philadelphia. Not all the way out in Pennsylvania.

He settles for a public radio station that sometimes plays country, not that he’s a big fan. It’s just…something to remind him of home.


End file.
